The Birdmen of Washington Square
They feed them and have a large flock around them like the wonderful warm woman from Home Alone 2.
About two months ago I got tired of one of then blocking the entire path with his orchestra of pigeons. So I "flew" into his flock over and over, scattering them before warning him that the next time he would swallow a few of his friends.
I haven't seen him since.
Yesterday as I circled Garibaldi Plaza, I saw another idiot who enjoys playing with flying rats. He was talking to them. He had about five sayings like one of those toys that says "try me".
"Take a lap!" he'd say as he would wave and scatter them.
"Come back!" he'd say before throwing more birdkibble.
There were a few more but it was a very basic act. "Basic Crazy". He didn't put much creativity into his program.
Because he didn't have to. He looked liked a drugged out biker and had two dozen birds protecting his territory. He could do anything and no one would bother him.
Nobody but me.
I didn't take a poll but none of the prime, benches, in the shade near him, were occupied. Five benches. Under the trees. No one on them.
Because he was too, weird. Too scary seeming even for you Park girls who are desensitized to most foolishness.
So I decided to get rid of him. I made the call that you would rather he take his hobby elsewhere.
*****
I sat down one bench away. A very conspicous antogonist. So much so some jackass on a scooter zoomed over snd sat down between us.
I have taken the side of the super-underdogs before. I have defended "touchers" from the jailmob. I have sided with "schizos" over their doctors. But that was in an all-boys setting.
The Park is yours. Not his. You voted with your feet. He was freaking you out.
I took my time unpacking. I did what I could to unnerve Bob the Birdman and his johnny-come-lately ally.
Eventually scooter-boy got the idea that I wasn't going anywhere soon, and he would have to devote his whole afternoon to protecting someone he didn't really care about.
After he left I did my best to ignore Bob but as I played my guitar with usual gusto the birds kept scattering, or he would make them, and their takeoffs kept blowing my sign askew.
After the third or fourth time I felt I had justification to attack. Because he saw they were annoying me - not to.mention most of the people walking past who kept dodging pigeons.
I began by trying to be helpful. Crazy people aren't crazy. They have built a wall of lunacy to isolate them from discussing their reality. Which I understand. And sympathize with. But going along with that only reinforces their personality.
It's better for them to call them out. To say "you have no clothes, emperor."
So first I said "you need some new ideas".
That didn't register. He stayed.
Then I switched from kindess to sarcasm. "Don't you have more than six sayings?"
That didn't wake him up.
Finally after yet another required readjustment to my sign I had enough.
Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" came on shuffle and I growled the lyrics. "Hello. Hello. Hello. How low?"
I can really, growl those words. I said "how low" imagining burying the bastard 60 feet down.
He still, didn't move.
I told him point blank to hit the road.
"Get your fucking birds away from me unless you wanna end up 30 feet down in the Hudson River."
Delivered with plenty of Southern American "now".
He was not happy. It was like I threw a bucket of water on R2-D2. He mumbled anger but packed his kit expressly as I glared at him and dared him to defy me.
He didn't. He moved to the other side.
In the sun. Yelling to anyone who would help him.
No one did.
